


dancing on the blades (you set my heart on fire)

by glitteringconstellations



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Hockey Player Keith, Multi, figure skater lance, figure skating AU, ice dance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-07 22:18:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12850674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitteringconstellations/pseuds/glitteringconstellations
Summary: Lance is an accomplished figure skater who was robbed of gold at Sochi. Keith is an ace hockey player who was robbed of the chance to play for the national title. When their paths cross, they form an unlikely friendship in their mutual love of the ice as they both work their way back from shattered dreams. Together, they just might make history.





	dancing on the blades (you set my heart on fire)

Lance couldn’t hear the cheers of the crowd over the rushing of his own pulse in his ears.

Despite the sweat trickling down his face, despite the way he heaved for breath, he grinned. After a few seconds more, he lowered his arms and spun around in one fluid motion to face the judges as flowers and plush sharks rained down on the ice. He bowed in a grand, sweeping motion, before righting himself to wave to the crowd.

That had been a damn near flawless program. Elated jitters ran over every inch of his skin as he bent down to pick up a couple of the bouquets. He’d even landed that damn quad Loop that’d been giving him the fits all season, sure and steady.

Coran beamed with pride as he made his way to the boards. “My boy, that was _magnificent_! I definitely see a personal best in your very near future!”

“Ha! Ye of little faith. That was definitely the gold standard, Coach,” Lance laughed, flicking the ice off his blades with a couple quick swipes of the wrist and slipping his guards on before stepping off the ice.

Lance was already the favorite for the gold. He scored a clear first place after the short program, and given that the other skaters had all finished their free skates, he was all but guaranteed a spot on the podium. Coran slipped a hand around his shoulders and guided him to the kiss and cry, where they eagerly awaited his scores.

He watched the highlight reel of his performance on the monitor, picking absently at the sequins on his sleeve. In a flash of dazzling blue, the Lance on the screen flew across the ice in a complicated step sequence. A smirk glinted as the camera caught it, half a second before he launched into a triple Lutz, double Flip combo, and Lance could hear the sensual salsa music in his head. Then the coups de grace, that quad Loop—and there it was! He’d done it! It looked even better than it felt. Lance still felt exhilarated, beaming as he watched the replay fade into the scoreboard.

Booming Russian flooded the arena, followed by English. “The scores, please.” Lance held his breath, reaching a hand out, seeking Coran. His coach grasped it between both of his, both of them peering anxiously. The deductions came up first, and Lance hissed. Damn near perfect in technical points, but what were those deductions in performance? Typically it was the other way around. No matter.

And there it was, his score. 171.76. A personal best, just as Coran had predicted. But Lance’s stomach did a funny little flip. He’d come in second in the free skate, a full six points below that of the current silver medalist. That… that just didn’t seem right. Alexei had _fallen_. He clenched Coran’s hand tighter while the composite score was calculated.

275.34.

Lance drew in a shaky breath, ducking his chin. He didn’t want to see the rankings. He knew what the scoreboard would say. He knew it from the outraged cries of the crowd.

_Alexei MIKHAILOV, RUS. 275.88. 1st place._  
Lance MCCLAIN, CUB. 275.34. 2nd place.  
Wei ZHOU, CHN. 269.92. 3rd place. 

He’d lost.

“Oh, lad…”

Lance shook his head. No, please, not pity. His eyes burned with tears, but he blinked them back furiously, swallowing past the lump in his throat before he lifted his head again. He pasted on a smile for the cameras, waving at them with his free hand. Coran put an arm around his shoulder comfortingly.

“It’s still silver, Coran,” Lance murmured, but he couldn’t even pretend to hide the shaking in his voice. “And I got that personal best, just like you said! How about that?” Coran just tightened his lips into a line and said nothing.

He allowed the ushers to lead him from the kiss and cry, Coran’s arm still tight around his trembling shoulders. The crowd’s jeers at the judges rang hollow in his ears, and Lance might have taken petty pleasure in someone beaning one with a plushy, if he had seen it.

As it were, he kept his chin ducked down as they walked down the back corridor. He couldn’t let the cameras see him cry.

\---

_McClain Robbed of Gold at Sochi? Fans Demand That The International Olympic Committee Order Special Investigation_

_Figure Skating Judges Deny Accusations of Favoritism_

_Could Skater’s Refusal To Skate Under The Star-Spangled Banner Have Cost Him Gold?_

_Olympic Gold Medalist on Stunning Upset: “I Thought For Sure I Was Going Home With Silver”_

_IOC Finds No Wrongdoing In Judges’ Decisions_

_Breaking News: First Cuban Athlete to Make Winter Olympic Podium Withdraws From Worlds, Four Continents_

Lance sighed, mindlessly scrolling through the headlines. It seemed all his usual networks wanted to talk about was how badly he had lost. (He hadn’t lost badly, not even by a long shot—but still it was the silver medal that would hang above his mother’s mantel, and not gold.)

The dim airport chatter was a balm to his ears, though. It helped distract him from the awful echo of his thoughts, mixed in with the terrible memory of the Russian anthem playing that night. He shuddered. (How he wished it’d been the song of his people playing, instead).

“Lance,” a voice said, cutting through his thoughts. “Are you certain about this? It’s not too late to re-enter—”

“I’m sure, Coran,” Lance snapped.

His coach winced, and Lance had the decency to look ashamed. He ran a weary hand through his hair, pocketed his phone, and hitched his duffel bag a little higher on his shoulder. Only then did he turn to meet Coran’s gaze. Guilt flooded him at the sorrow in the man’s face. “I’m sorry.”

Coran shook his head. “No, my dear boy, I am the one who is sorry. It should not have turned out this way. You deserved better. Perhaps if I had done something differently…” he trailed off seeing Lance shake his head vehemently.

“You were nothing short of a miracle worker. I wouldn’t have gotten this far without you, Coach. I…” he faltered, letting his eyes fall downward. “Your next student will be damn lucky to have you.” The words tasted bitter on his tongue.

Suddenly he was being pulled in for a hug, and Lance couldn’t fight the tears that sprung to his eyes. He buried his face in Coran’s shoulder, reaching around to grip tightly at the back of the man’s shirt.

“Thanks for everything,” he mumbled. Coran patted the back of his head, and Lance was sure he felt droplets falling down the back of his neck.

“And many thanks to you, as well.” Coran gave a great sniff before he pulled away, resting a hand on each shoulder as he held Lance at length. “Say hello to your mother for me? And all of those siblings of yours. And your cousins, while you’re at it. Maybe their kids, too, for safe measure.”

Lance managed a watery laugh. “All right, all right, I get it. Greetings to the entire clan from Coran, Coran, the Skater Man.” He pawed at the remnants of his tears with the back of his sleeve. “You’ll have to come down and visit us sometime. Texas isn’t all that far away.”

“If you’ll have me!” Coran said. Lance knew it was an empty promise—Coran would be very busy with his new young protégé, the Junior Grand Prix champion.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. We will soon begin boarding passengers on flight AA219 with service to Dallas/Fort Worth…”

“Guess that’s me,” said Lance, shifting. “Seriously, Coran. Thank you.”

“You are most welcome, lad. Now, off you go.” He shooed Lance off, and with a lingering glance over his shoulder, Lance turned and headed for the boarding queue. He kept his eyes down on the boarding pass he clutched in his hand, stubbornly. But he couldn’t resist one last look, after the gate agent had scanned it.

Coran gave him a wave, and might have said something like, “Godspeed.” Lance waved back, and turned back and marched down the jet way, walking away from everything he’d worked for.

He refused to think the word “retirement.” He knew the rumors, and knew what dropping out now would do to his reputation. He’d be back, one day, probably. But the thought of stepping on the ice right now, he couldn’t bear it. 

Still, he couldn’t help the feeling of finality, as he watched Colorado Springs become smaller and smaller out his window, until it disappeared beneath the clouds.

\--- 

The last thing Keith remembered was scoring.

They’d fought a close game the whole night, but that last shot felt nigh impossible. But he’d done it, his small stature working to his advantage as he slid between two massive opposing players for the goal. He remembered turning to give Shiro a victorious grin, only to see the two players rushing at him, and then they were colliding into him full force.

He felt, rather than heard it, when he was bodily slammed against the goal post. Excruciating pain shot up his back, the wind knocked out of his lungs and his head snapped back against the inside of his helmet and then-- 

Nothing. Just darkness, for what seemed an age.

He blinked blearily, willing his eyes to focus on something, _anything_. He peered into the darkness as far as his eyes could see, and just when he thought he might be going crazy, the horizon lightened up. Not gradually, just all at once, and he winced at the suddenly blinding light. 

“…eith… Keith, can… hear me? Doc, I think… waking up!” 

Keith groaned, the voice pounding at his ears and contributing to the throbbing in his skull. Like someone had flipped a switch, Keith was suddenly aware of just how much he _hurt_ , like, everywhere. But his head and his back were the worst, by far. 

“Now, now, stand back! Don’t want to crowd the poor boy.”

Gritting his teeth, Keith chanced squinting his eyes open. It was very white, was the first thing he noticed. It was also very warm, which didn't lend to the thought that he was still in the arena. He looked down at his chest and sure enough, his hockey gear had been replaced with a hospital gown. He groaned again. Freaking great. 

A shifting on his other side made Keith look over, seeing about half of his team crammed into the tiny room. Of course Shiro hovered closest, his prosthetic gripping the metal rail of his hospital bed in such a way that it grinded irritatingly. If he’d had the energy, Keith would have swatted at him; as it were, he just glared. 

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Shiro said, his voice noticeably softer than his panicked queries minutes ago. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a truck,” Keith deadpanned. Behind Shiro, Antok laughed nervously. 

“I mean, in a way I guess you did? Sendak and his buddy did a real number on you, kiddo. I definitely wouldn’t want to be crushed between them on a good day, yeesh.” 

The game came rushing back to him all at once. Keith struggled to sit up, despite every nerve in his body screaming at him not to. Shiro pushed him back down into the pillows by the shoulders, gently but firmly holding him there. “Take it easy. You only just woke up.” 

Keith ignored that, but his body hurt too much to struggle. “Did we win?” he asked instead. The guys shared a Look between them, and Shiro’s frown deepened. “ _Guys._ Are we going to nationals or not?” 

“We are,” Kolivan said at last, though he didn’t sound as happy about it as Keith thought he might. “But you’re not.”

Keith stared blankly. “What?” 

“You’ve been unconscious for three days. The last thing you need to worry about is—”

“ _Three days_?!”

“Told you he was gonna flip his shit,” Regris muttered from the back the group. 

The doctor took this as his cue to intervene. “Alright, that’s quite enough! Out, out, the lot of you!” Shiro opened his mouth to argue, but the doctor cut him off. “You can stay, you’re family. But the rest of you, out!” 

The team quickly muttered their well wishes, ducking out under the doctor’s withering glare. Shiro bit his lip as the last one filed out, Keith staring expectantly at him. Only when the doctor turned to face them did Shiro finally break his silence.

“Thanks to you, well… we would have won even if the Galra hadn’t been disqualified, I’ll put it that way. But you were really, _really_ hurt.” An inkling of guilt started to bubble in Keith’s chest at the pained look that crossed Shiro’s face. “I’ve never seen anything like it. You just… dropped.”

“A good knock to the noggin will do that to you,” the doctor said dryly, coming up to the other side of the bed and shining a light in Keith’s eyes one at a time. Keith hissed. “You had a good deal more than an ordinary concussion, given the length of time you were unconscious. Gave us all a good scare!” 

He put the penlight away, moving down to Keith’s legs and pulling out a different tool. Keith’s breath hitched when he realized he couldn’t feel the doctor’s hand on his knee, his heart quickly starting to race when his leg didn’t so much as twitch when the doctor gave it a swift tap. 

“Why… why can’t I feel my legs?” Keith asked, his voice coming out high-pitched and strangled. 

“That’d be because you fractured three vertebrae,” the doctor said, his voice utterly flat. “Now, not to worry, the loss of sensation is more than likely temporary. Scans showed minimal damage to your spinal cord, which is the positive news.” He sighed, tucking his tool back in his pocket before continuing. “The bad news is, your friends were right. Because of the severity of your injuries, you will unfortunately not be playing for the remainder of the season, at the very best. At worst, I’m afraid that match might have been your last.”

“You’ll walk again, Keith, don’t worry,” Shiro said hurriedly, seeing the panic mounting in Keith’s wide eyes. “It’ll just take some time. We’ll get you into rehab just as soon as you’re all healed up.” He reached out to take one of Keith’s hands with his flesh hand, and Keith tried to focus on that instead of the way his breath came in short, stuttering bursts.

They’d worked so hard for the chance to play at nationals. _He’d_ worked so hard. Even the thought of never walking again, terrifying as that was, didn’t come close to the bitter disappointment that churned in his stomach. He felt frustrated tears prick at the corners of his eyes, and he turned his gaze to stare resolutely at the wall. 

“Keith…” Shiro said, almost pleading. “It’ll be okay. I promise.” He gave Keith’s hand a squeeze. 

Keith found that hard to believe.

**Author's Note:**

> please don't shoot me for my incredibly original and unique title and totally not cringe-worthy summary 8D i'm a fledgling figure skater myself, and i'm not a doctor, so uh, bear with me on the technical stuff here.


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